


Abandon All Hope

by kerravon



Series: Reflections in a Shattered Mirror [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2018-03-08 11:10:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3207011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerravon/pseuds/kerravon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clearly, if the Winchesters are going to prevent Armageddon, they're going to need help.  Unfortunately, Crowley has some experience in this arena.  At least this time he's armed with something a little better than a tyre iron...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abandon All Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Episode 5 - 10, "Abandon All Hope"

'This is bollocks,' groused Crowley, reclining in a decadently-padded leather armchair in the living room of his most secure mansion. The seals were broken, Lilith was dead, Lucifer was free and all of mankind was buggered up the arse. Lucifer was a fallen angel whose most famous personality trait was his notorious hatred of humanity, and consequently a desire to end the world. His second most dominant drive was his obsessive hatred of his brother Michael. Needless to say, the Light Bringer was already summoning the Horsemen.

Crowley, King of the Crossroads, wanted Judgment Day about as much as a herring wanted an all-expenses-paid vacation to Death Valley. He liked humanity with all its foibles, idiosyncrasies, and moments of brilliance. He liked living with humans, even if his job meant making their short lives miserable. He liked aged single-malt scotch and flat-screen 4K television. The apocalypse meant the end of all that. 

However, he had already suffered the consequences for stopping one Armaggedon; if he was going to help derail a second, it would be from behind the scenes. As dysfunctional as they were, those Winchesters boys seemed the best bet for getting the job done. But how to convince them that he truly wanted to help? They'd never believe that he just wanted the world to keep on ticking; he would have to come up with some other more believable motivation for opposing Lucifer. Something more self-centered than, 'I find humans fascinating and want them to stick around for a good long time'.

In addition, the 'mayhem brothers' had an secret advantage on their side; their selectively-amnesiac angel had already stopped an apocalypse before. Of course, no one but Crowley remembered that; Heaven was awfully good at mind-wiping and reprogramming its populace when it served their purposes, and Adam had given them a good head start. Still, the demon bet that the angel's basic instincts were still there, buried deep inside, simply hidden by whatever Up Above had done to him.

He stood and began to pace, pondering the problem. 'OK, gotta be believable to a bunch of yahoos that see the universe in black and white. Therefore, I'm an evil, self-centered black-eyed monster. So, let's start with 'normal' demonic motivations… 

'Most hellspawn want Lucifer to succeed because, as he created them, they believe that they will inherit the Earth after he kills off all the human beings. They want this because even demons hate being in Hell. They aren't smart enough to realize that the Earth will simply become an annex to Down Below, literally 'hell on earth'.' He stilled momentarily, eyes squinting in concentration. 'Also, while Lucifer did create demon-kind, he created them by twisting human souls. If the Morningstar, a Fallen angel, despises humanity so much that he wants them wiped out, how could he possibly love demons? After all, he only made the first demon to prove to God how inferior human kind were to angels. He probably only kept doing it out of spite.'' Crowley's eyes widened; that might not be too far off the actual mark. His proposed behavior might seem more self-serving than he had originally thought, since he was masquerading as a normal demon and not one of the Fallen. 'It makes sense. If Lucifer managed to wipe out mankind, demons would be next on his list. Until then, we're just convenient cannon fodder.'

As far as he could see, their only hope was the Colt, the weapon that could supposedly kill anything. Not that he would dare use it himself, not after last time, but he'd put enough hints and rumors into the firmament that the Winchester brothers should be showing up any minute to retrieve it. Besides, he'd seen… Castiel… follow him home from the deal he'd sealed with that pig of a banker this afternoon. Not that he'd tried to lose him; Crowley needed the hunters to do his dirty work, especially since Sam Winchester was the only being in creation who would be able to safely approach the Adversary long enough to get a shot in.

It was slowly getting easier to think of Aziraphale and Castiel as two different angels, even though deep down Crowley knew differently. He'd been quietly watching Castiel ever since the angel had rescued Dean from the jaws of Hell. The two angels were so different that it had to be intentional. Castiel was thin and wiry and brunette, with wings as black as night. Aziraphale had been plump and soft and blond, with the whitest wings Crowley had ever seen. Castiel was gruff-voiced and efficient, Aziraphale soft-spoken and dithering. Yet despite their best efforts, Heaven hadn't been able to eliminate the angel's stubborn streak, his devotion to his principles, his loyalty to his comrades, his love of learning, and his inability to comprehend current pop culture or slang. They also hadn't managed to instill any subtlety into the poor sod, nor eliminate his willingness to oppose Heaven itself if he felt they were doing wrong. Ultimately, in any guise the angel was a disappointment to Upstairs, and once again managed to be banished to Earth where he always seemed happiest.

Crowley mentally accessed the tracker coin hidden in the bushes outside his front gate and snorted as he listened to Castiel's call to Dean. The boys would probably show up within the next twenty-four hours. He'd better make sure the Colt and its ammunition could be easily found and 'stolen'.

\----SPN-GO------

When he heard the commotion out front that evening, he flipped on his flat-screen to something appropriately loud and demonic, poured himself a drink, then settled down in his armchair to feign ignorance. He noted that his stereo was crooning, "Everybody Plays the Fool", causing him to grunt and flash a small, self-deprecating smile. Yeah, getting involved in stopping yet another apocalypse was certainly foolish, but at least this time he was going up against Lucifer through proxies with a weapon that might actually kill the Adversary, rather than attacking him head-on with a tire-iron. He ignored the alarms raised by the demonic 'guards' that were rapidly expiring at the hands of some very enthusiastic hunters. While they were supposedly assigned there to protect Crowley, the demon knew that their real purpose was to spy on him and report Downstairs, most likely to Beelzebub himself. The Lord of the Flies still held a grudge for Crowley outwitting him with logic. Crowley smiled viciously to himself as he heard another demon's final agonized scream; he was perfectly happy with fewer spies and traitors in his immediate vicinity. 

The power cut out and he glanced up, groaning internally. Damn! He'd just wanted to pretend to watch hellishly-appropriate TV while his inept minions allowed his mansion to be burgled. Now he was going to have to confront the boys personally or it would seem too suspicious. He sighed in resignation, then stood to stalk to his office. Looks like personal involvement was the name of the game, at least for now.

He had no sooner entered the room where the hunters were than he was greeted by the taller brother. "It's Crowley, right?", the man asked, as if he didn't already know. What an idiot!

"So. The Hardy boys finally found me," Crowley snarled sarcastically. "Took you long enough," he grumbled under his breath. As he strode into the room, he noticed that his favorite 400 kpsi Tabrize was wrinkled, and the brothers looked suddenly… uncomfortable. He groaned. Apparently they thought he was an idiot as well. Flipping up a corner, he saw the edge of a devil's trap painted on the underside with indelible marker. Great. Now he was going to have to get at least a portion of the sigil professionally removed, or he would never be able to walk across it again. He fixed them with a glare. "Do you have any idea how much this rug cost?", he demanded irritably. So much for helping out. What was the saying? 'No good deed goes unpunished.'

Just then his last two remaining demon guards seized the hunters from behind, effectively disarming them in the process. Crowley's heart jumped to his throat; those morons might actually kill the brothers in their enthusiasm. Fortunately, they simply held the Winchesters fast and awaited Crowley's orders. Their mistake.

The looks on the boys' faces when he shot their captors were absolutely priceless. At least now they could have a private conversation without anyone reporting the details to Down Below. Just to be safe, he strolled nonchalantly into his private inner office, closing the door behind the three of them. This chamber was warded against everything both demonic and angelic, so no eavesdropping. Crowley proceeded to give them the Colt, carefully spinning his tale of self-preservation in the process. He threw in enough truth to make the entire thing believable, but wasn't surprised when the giant one (Sam, he recalled) raised the weapon to his forehead and pulled the trigger.

The crossroads demon kept his face carefully impassive, not even giving them a blink or a flinch, as he mentally rolled his eyes. Of course he had made certain that the Colt was empty before handing it over. These children were as predictable as sunrise in the East. Their world was black and white, and their actions reflected that viewpoint. No matter that he had just explained that he was helping them and they had parallel goals; Crowley was a demon and therefore needed to be destroyed. Well, perhaps he could broaden their horizons just a bit during this whole debacle.

He kept his face expressionless as he commented dryly, "Oh, yeah, right. You'll probably need some more ammunition." He pointedly turned his back to them as he went to rummage unnecessarily through his desk drawer, ultimately producing the package of bullets that had been specially made for the weapon.

The shorter brother was clearly rethinking his 'all demons are evil' stance when he confusedly stammered, "Oh, uh, excuse me for asking, but aren't you kind of signing your own death warrant? I mean, what happens to you if we go up against the devil and lose?"

By this time the King of the Crossroads had heard enough stupidity to last him a lifetime. He shot (Dean, right?) a glare that could melt steel. "Number one: he's going to wipe us all out anyway. Two: after you leave here, I go on an extended vacation to all points nowhere. And three: how about you don't miss, okay? Morons!" He was shouting by the end of his reply, still insulted by Sam's attempt to murder him after all his help. He tossed the packet of bullets at the Winchester not holding the Colt, then vanished before they could try anything else idiotic, the ingrates.

He didn't go far; just to the backseat of an old but lovingly-cared-for Impala. Crowley's brows rose and the corner of his mouth curled in appreciation. It might not be a Bentley, but it had a certain pizzazz. He ducked down behind the seats to make certain that he wasn't seen as he searched for a good hiding place for his little listening device. It wasn't easy given the cleanliness of the vehicle, but he finally found a small defect where the upholstery had slightly loosened from the seat frame that was precisely the right size. He wedged one of his small tracker coins into the rent, then snapped out just before the Winchesters came into view of their car at a full run. At least this way he would be able to keep tabs on the situation and maybe lend a surreptitious helping hand now and again. He had a feeling that the idiots would need all the help they could get.

\----SPN-GO------

Rather than making himself scarce as he'd told the Winchesters, Crowley decided to head back to his office and pretend like it was business as usual. With his listening device in place, he should have plenty of warning if he needed to run. Unfortunately, with Lucifer above ground and all the portents and misfortunes that entailed, humans were scrambling in droves to the nearest crossroads to make themselves a deal. His department was absolutely hopping, giving him no time to check on the hunters' progress with the Colt. He was knee-deep in paperwork, barely glancing up from the contract he was editing when the door to his office slammed open.

In the doorway stood a seething Meg. Her clothes were burnt, showing the slowly-healing tissue beneath, and her face was almost unrecognizable. Crowley froze in surprise, pen halting halfway through signing his name on the documents before him. "You traitor!" she hissed, producing a lethal-looking blade from within the remnants of her jacket and surging forward. The crossroads demon realized that his desire to kill Lucifer had somehow been revealed, and instantly blinked away to his nearest safe house. The pen clattered to the desk moments before the knife drove into his chair's leather back.

"Damn, damn, damn," he muttered, trying to quell the panic rising in his throat. He was in a remote seaside cottage in northern Oregon that stood at the top of a sheer cliff surrounded by forests. The low stone wall that encircled the two-bedroom bungalow appeared mostly decorative to the naked eye, but supernatural vision revealed warding in Enochian, Latin, Hebrew and demonic tongues. There were special loopholes for Crowley himself, but he suspected that all the sigils in the universe would do little to keep out Lucifer if the Morningstar came calling. He was counting on the fact that the Devil had bigger fish to fry.

He flung open a cabinet in the kitchen and retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of Glenfiddich, pouring himself a hefty double shot and throwing it back with a single well-practiced flip of the wrist. He closed his eyes as he dropped the glass on the counter, leaning against it until he stopped shaking. 'That was too close! What the Hell happened, anyway?' he snarled to himself.

With steadier hands he got ice from the freezer, then refilled his glass. Snagging the bottle as well, he sauntered into the main room and settled into his favorite armchair, sagging back into the expensive leather with a sigh. Closing his eyes, he did a mental check of the numerous tracking coins he had scattered in various strategic locations as he attempted to determine just how buggered he was. It might have been easier with technological assistance, but given Hell's proclivity towards using radios and televisions as communication devices, he had made certain that there were none within miles of his hideout.

The first coin he went after was the one he'd planted in the back of the Impala. He'd be willing to bet his right arm that the Winchesters were up to their necks in this mess, particularly since they now had the Colt. After a minute of mental adjustment, he honed in on the car. The roar of the engine and the squealing of the tires in the background supported Crowley's belief that the plan had probably gone to Hell, so to speak. He tuned out the background noise and concentrated on the conversation.

"I'm pretty sure we're clear, Dean," came Sam's strained voice. "I don't think Lucifer had enough followers left on site to even give chase."

"So what happened?" asked Castiel's unusually gruff voice. Crowley growled internally at whatever might have been responsible for that pained tone.

"Well, I got him right between the eyes, point blank. Apparently, Lucifer is one of only five things in creation that the Colt can't kill," Dean snarled in frustration. 

The Crossroads King blinked in surprise as he heard that. 'Damn! I thought that the Colt was supposed to kill everything!'

"Do you think Crowley knew?" demanded Sam angrily.

The older brother sounded surprisingly thoughtful. "I'm… not sure, but I know he wasn't lying about Lucifer despising demons. He ganked every last one in that yard without a second thought."

Crowley mentally flinched at the confirmation of Lucifer's disdain.

"Meg is still alive," Castiel commented. "She was guarding me."

'No,' thought Crowley in denial as he listened to the angel's words. An ugly suspicion was beginning to take shape.

"What happened to you, anyway, Cas?" asked Sam.

"Lucifer captured me in a circle of holy fire, then tried to convince me to join him. He respects angels, at least." Castiel's gruff voice showed no emotion.

"Even fallen ones?", asked Dean in disbelief.

There was a considering pause, then the depowered angel replied, "I think… especially fallen ones."

Huh. Crowley hadn't considered that when he'd fabricated his excuse for wanting to kill Lucifer. As a fallen angel himself, he'd have been perfectly safe with the Morningstar in charge if he revealed his true identity. Of course, no one actually knew that he was anything other than a crossroads demon, so his story should still be believable. More believable than a demon siding with humanity, even if he had done so before.

"How'd you get free then?" Sam unknowingly voiced Crowley's next question.

"I… distracted her, got her upset, then hit her with a pipe I had loosened from the wall. Her body broke the circle, and my next step was to rescue you."

"Distracted her," commented Dean, an unasked question in his voice.

'No, Aziraphale, you didn't!' Crowley groaned internally. Even if his angel didn't remember him, the inadvertent betrayal still stung.

"I told her Crowley's theory about Lucifer just using demons to further his own ends, then disposing of them later. She was quite emphatic about it being incorrect."

Crowley sighed in quiet despair. 'I'll just bet you used my name, too. No wonder Meg was so pissed. I'm dead.'

He knew intellectually that Castiel wasn't Aziraphale, not any longer, but he felt his supposedly non-existent heart break a little, anyway.


End file.
